The morning sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Greg and Jim’s newly redecorated living room. Vintage leather armchairs, a teak record console, and shelves groaning under the weight of obscure vinyl had replaced the La-Z-Boy recliners, wide-screen TV, and photos of the middle-aged bear couple smiling in front of various landmarks. A fiddle-leaf fig stood in the corner, its glossy leaves throwing reflected light onto a battered mechanical typewriter sitting on a reclaimed wooden desk. Wedged between the keys was a thin placard that read “Words have weight.” 

Jim stood in front of the antique full-length mirror, knotting a mustard-colored silk scarf over his too snug button down. The shirt, two sizes too small, clung to him for dear life and was perfectly suited for a man who wanted people to think it was an old favorite. Over it, he wore a tailored vest with a silver pocket watch and chain. Where he once spent the weekend in cargo shorts and t-shirts, he now excluded the kind of effortless chic that actually took considerable effort to achieve. 

In the kitchen, which now resembled an experimental coffee lab, Jim’s husband Greg stared intently at the timer on his phone. Beakers, pour-over devices, and scales accurate to the tenth of a gram cluttered the butcher-block countertops. The showpiece, an espresso machine straight out of a steampunk fever dream, hummed softly, a testament to the couple’s relentless pursuit of caffeinated perfection. 

“Your beans are eight seconds past bloom, dear,” Greg muttered under his breath. He exhaled, frustrated. “Ugh. The whole extraction is ruined.” 

“Relax, babe,” Jim called from the living room, slipping on a pair of pristine Converse sneakers—immaculate because they never trod farther than from a café to the record store next door. “We’ll just do another pour over before brunch. I think the Guatemalan blend still has untapped potential.” 

Greg scraped the grounds into the vintage compost jar. “It’s just… I can taste when the bloom’s late. The flavor gets acidic. Pedestrian, almost.” He spat the word like it was a curse, lingering in the air between them. 

Jim sauntered into the kitchen, adjusting his tortoiseshell glasses—non-prescription, of course. He leaned into Greg and took a deep breath, inhaling his husband’s freshly oiled beard. “That sandalwood smells divine. And is that a hint of bergamot?” 

Greg smiled, stroking his beard with satisfaction. “Sure is. The new apothecary downtown. They use essential oils from small-batch farms. Super sustainable.” 

Jim nodded sagely, sharing in Greg’s profound truth. “Definitely worth our business. It’s so hard to find something that doesn’t smell artificial.” 

They exchanged a knowing look, silently reassuring each other that they were indeed above all things artificial. 

Greg leaned casually against the counter, his beer belly straining the buttons of his geometric print shirt. “Brunch is at that converted church on DeWitt Street.” 

“Rustic cuisine?” 

“Neo-rustic. Every dish comes with a story about where the ingredients were foraged.” 

Jim’s eyes sparkled. “I read about that place in last week’s issue of Provender. They serve everything on reclaimed wood plates, and the servers wear fedoras.” 

Greg nodded, already firing up the espresso machine for one last cup before they left. “After brunch, we should hit that new roaster showcase. They’re releasing a batch that’s roasted within hours of the harvest.” 

Jim shuddered with pleasure. “I love that for us.” 

“Right?” Greg grinned, pouring a layered macchiato into a speckled ceramic cup. He raised an eyebrow. “Did you post today? We’re already late for the engagement curve.” 

Jim groaned, snapping his fingers. “Good catch.” He whipped out his phone and switched on the ring light already mounted on the countertop. Framing an artful shot of the coffee, he tilted the cup just so, ensuring the light hit the foam perfectly. “How’s this: ‘Saturday morning, elevated. #CoffeeHusbands #MicroRoastMagic.’” 

Greg beamed. “That’s gold. Post it.” 

As Jim maneuvered his phone into the back pocket of his skinny trousers, he sighed. A flicker of something passed between them, charging the air with unspoken longing. 

“Remember when we just got our coffee from the old QuikStation down the street?” Greg asked, practicing his latte art with an empty frothing pitcher and a cardboard template. 

Jim shrugged. “That QuikStation is an oxygen bar and artisinal terrarium shop now.” 

“The Mossarium, I know,” Greg said. “Can’t believe I’m nostalgic for gas station drip coffee.” 

“That was before we knew what we were missing.” 

Greg chuckled, but the laughter was humorless. “Yeah. Back when things in this town were simpler. Messier, but simpler.” 

Jim hesitated. The shift in Greg’s tone sparked his own anxiety. He loosened his scarf, a rare break from his polished persona. “Is everything okay?” 

Greg shrugged. “I don’t know. Sometimes I miss our old weekends. Breakfast at Waffle Town. Filling a cooler with beer and driving up to the lake. Not having to worry about, y’know, content.” 

Jim gave a small, wistful smile, the kind that hinted at the happy-go-lucky man he used to be. “Yeah. Me too, I guess.” 

For a moment, it seemed like they might step out of the overgrown hipster personas they had crafted, just long enough to remember the real connection they once shared. Greg reached across the counter, resting his hand on Jim’s. 

Jim’s smile faltered, silent alarms of anxiety going off in his mind. Too real. Too genuine. “You know,” he said, breaking the moment, “I heard there’s a gallery opening .” 

Greg withdrew his hand, the moment slipping away like a puff of steam from the espresso machine. “Sounds good.” 

And just like that, the husbands were back—two hipster kinds reigning over their meticulously curated lives. 

Greg’s phone buzzed. “Time for our microdose,” he announced, reaching for the tiny dropper bottle on the counter. 

Jim accepted the dropper with a solemn nod, as if it were communion. They each took a drop, then high fived—a quick, mechanical clap of palms, now even more placidly subdued. 

The gesture was a far cry from the beer-induced belly laughs and spontaneous cuddling they used to share, but none of that seemed to matter anymore. Their relationship had become a finely tuned performance, refined to the point where even intimacy felt redundant. 

Jim grabbed a canvas tote bag embroidered with Ephemeral & Obsolete—the name of the neighborhood’s newest indie bookstore—and Greg adjusted his longshoreman’s beanie just enough to look like he didn’t care how it looked. They exchanged a glance that said showtime. 

As they exited the house, their steps synchronized and confident, they headed toward the brunch spot with the swagger of men who believed they were smarter, cooler, and more evolved than everyone around them.  

Not because of love or connection—but because no one could possibly brew coffee as well as they could. 

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